


Time to Make Time

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, but not very much smut actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 14:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14404374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: The squad throws Barba a going-away party, and Benson gets drunker than Barba has ever seen her. He realizes that she thinks he's leaving everything behind, including her. It hurts that she would believe him capable of saying goodbye to her. He isn't sure of anything in his life anymore - except that he needs her in it.When they wake in the morning, their memories of the previous evening are more than a bit fuzzy. But the time has finally come to admit the feelings they've ignored for six years.





	Time to Make Time

“Liv, maybe you should go easy.”

Benson peered at Fin with a scowl. “That’s something coming from you,” she said, pointing an unsteady finger at him. She held up her glass. “But thanks, Dad.”

“He’s got a point, Liv,” Rollins said. “I can give you a ride home, Lucy probably—”

“No, see,” Benson interrupted, “I had Lucy take Noah to her place for the night.”

“Good, then you can get lots of rest,” Rollins said, glancing at Carisi.

Carisi was a little inebriated, but he was nowhere near as drunk as Benson. He understood the look that Rollins gave him, and piped up, “Yeah, I’m ready to head out, Lieu, Rollins can drive the both of us.”

“Why’s everyone _sooo_ concerned?” Benson asked, unaware of how badly she was slurring her words. She narrowed her eyes. “You know I’m your boss?”

“Yeah, and they know you’re hammered,” Barba said beside her.

She turned toward him. “ _Hammered?_ Nobody says hammered.”

Barba looked at her, silent.

“Besides,” she said, pointing at the banner strung above the door, “see that? What’s that say?”

He didn’t need to look. It said _Farewell, Barba._ He didn’t like the look of it. He might’ve expected a _Good Luck_ or a _We’ll Miss You_ , or even a _Bon Voyage_. And maybe _Counsellor_ instead of his name. Something about the combination— _Farewell, Barba_ —made him feel ill. He’d been determined to relax and enjoy the party that they—these people who had, in spite of his best intentions, become his friends—were throwing for him, but he wasn’t enjoying himself.

And it wasn’t just because Benson was drunker than he’d ever seen her, although that was part of it. He knew that she was upset—upset that he was leaving, upset about the way he’d told her outside the courthouse, upset about Stone replacing him. He understood; he wasn’t happy about any of those things, either.

He’d never meant to shut her out of his life, but this—not just the _farewell_ sign, but the whole evening—felt like a goodbye. Like a real, and final, goodbye. It had hurt to walk away from her at the courthouse, but they’d both been upset. He’d known that they both needed space, or they would say something they couldn’t take back. He’d walked away from her, and it had hurt, but it had still felt temporary.

This felt final. She felt it, too. That’s why she’d been drinking so much. Barba had stopped after a few drinks, once he’d seen how quickly she was downing her liquor.

“It _says_ I’m gonna sit here and say goodbye to my friend,” she said. She was staring at him, and he could see the emotion beneath the shine of alcohol in her eyes. After a moment, she put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re my friend,” she told him.

“I know,” he answered. His stomach and throat were burning. So were his eyes.

She reached across herself and put her other hand on his arm, peering at him. “You’re my very great friend,” she said.

“I know,” he repeated. She was making him uncomfortable, now. He was afraid she would say something, in front of her squad, something that she would regret in the morning. He wondered if he should just leave, if that might not be the best thing for everyone. He covered her hand with his, hoping there was still some part of her intoxicated mind that was capable of rational thought. “Liv, let me take you home,” he said.

“Ooooh, take me _home_ ,” she said. “We’re not friends with _benefits_ , Barba,” she laughed, winking at him.

Carisi laughed, and Barba shot him a murderous look that wiped the humor from his face in an instant.

“Okay, Liv,” Rollins said, pushing to her feet. “Time to get you out of here.”

Benson ignored her. “Why aren’t we, anyway?” she asked Barba. “Is it because I didn’t read _Seven Slaughterhouses_?”

“It’s _Slaughterhouse-Five_ ,” Carisi offered. “What?” he asked when Rollins shot him a dirty look. “Why’s everyone mad at _me_?”

Barba ignored them, too. Benson was staring at him. His heart was slamming in his chest, now. They couldn’t have this conversation— _not here, not now, not like this_ , he thought. He suddenly wished he hadn’t stopped drinking. He didn’t want to be sober. It would be so much easier if they were both drunk, and they could just throw caution and responsibility to the wind—

He shoved that thought away, and violently.

She leaned forward and laid her cheek against his shoulder. She walked her fingers down his chest, and he cursed the heat suddenly staining his cheeks. He grabbed her wrist and moved her hand to the table. She pulled it from his grasp and immediately lifted it to his head, tugging gently on his hair. He closed his eyes, willing himself under control.

“You’ve gone pretty gray, Barba,” she said. Her lips were close to his ear, too close, and he had to fight to suppress a shiver. She ran her hand down his cheek, tracing her fingertips along his jaw.

“Liv,” he said. He opened his eyes and happened to catch Rollins’s stare. She looked uncomfortable; prying her inebriated lieutenant off of their ADA— _former ADA_ , he reminded himself with an internal wince—had not been in her plans for the evening. Nor should it be her responsibility. He clenched his jaw. “Olivia,” he said, turning his head toward Benson. Her face was so close, her lips—He swallowed, with effort. He could smell the liquor on her breath. He could smell her perfume, her shampoo. He could see the golden flecks in her dark eyes.

“You always smell good,” she murmured. “Like coffee and…something cinnamony.”

“ _Cinnamony_ ,” Carisi laughed.

“I don’t smell like cinnamon,” Barba said, again catching her wrist in his hand. Rollins had shaken herself out of her surprise, and was rounding the table.

Benson frowned. “Something spicy,” she said.

“Come on, Liv, let’s leave the poor counsellor alone,” Rollins said, putting her hand on Benson’s shoulder. “I’ll take you and Carisi home.”

“Why’m I the only one having fun?” Benson asked.

“Because you had all the booze,” Fin said. Unlike Rollins, he seemed quite amused by Barba’s discomfort.

“This is supposed to be a party,” Benson said.

“The party’s over, Liv,” Rollins answered. She looked at Barba, unsure how to go about his Benson-ectomy.

“It’s fine,” he said, holding up his hand. “I’ll take her home.”

Rollins hesitated, and he felt a flare of annoyance. He supposed he couldn’t blame her; she was only concerned with Benson’s well-being, but Rollins had known him for as long as Benson had. She couldn’t really believe he’d take advantage of a situation like this, could she?

Benson tipped her face and kissed the underside of his jaw, startling him. He felt his body beginning to respond, and cursed himself a thousand times over. He shifted away from her, putting a hand on her shoulder when she tried to follow him.

She frowned at him. “Don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy,” she said.

“ _Fuddy-duddy_ ,” Carisi laughed.

Benson looked up at Rollins. “Why does he keep repeating what I say, is he drunk or something?”

Carisi pointed at her, laughing, and Rollins turned on him. “You,” she said, “are cut off. Get your coat.” She looked at Fin. “And you’re being very helpful, thanks.” Fin shrugged and spread his hands, smiling. “Are you sure you’ve got this?” she asked Barba.

“Of course,” he said with a scowl.

“Liv, are you alright with Barba taking you home?” Rollins asked.

“I’m trying but he’s being a prude,” Benson said, pouting. She was still leaning against his arm.

Barba’s cheeks were flaming, and he was scowling. Fin was smirking at him. Carisi was grinning as he put on his coat. Rollins was still concerned, and Barba glared up at her. “For God’s sake, Detective,” he said. “Do you really not think I can get her safely home?”

“Honestly?” Rollins asked, glancing at Benson. “It’s not you I don’t trust right now.”

That took some of the wind out of his anger, and he sighed. “Come on, Liv,” he said, gently pushing her off his arm. “Get up, we’re getting out of here.”

“Are you a prude, Barba?” Benson asked.

“No,” he answered, holding her arm as he got to his feet so she wouldn’t fall off the edge of her chair. “Get up.”

“It’s just me you didn’t want?” she asked, as she got unsteadily to her feet. Barba grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and held it up, but she tried to stick her arm into the wrong sleeve, and he had to physically help her into the coat. She reached out and poked a finger at his chest. “You’re not wearing a tie.”

“That’s because he’s unemployed,” Fin said.

“Come on,” Barba said, steering her toward the door. “Thanks for the party, everyone,” he said, knowing that he hadn’t said any real and proper goodbyes. The truth was, he didn’t know how.

“Hey,” Rollins said, and he looked back at her. “Don’t be a stranger, huh?” she said, and he nodded.

“See ya ‘round, Rafael,” Carisi said, suddenly seeming considerably more sober.

Barba paused, looking around at each of them. “It’s been an honor,” he finally said.

“Don’t get sappy,” Fin told him, and Barba smiled at him. “But, you did a good job, here,” the detective added after a few beats.

“I need another drink,” Benson said, trying to turn back toward the table.

Barba put his hand at the small of her back and moved her toward the door, instead. “Come on, Liv,” he said, quietly.

 

*       *       *

 

“Looks like someone’s getting lucky tonight,” the cab driver said, winking, as Barba paid him.

Barba bit back his retort, clenching his jaw. Benson had been all over him in the back of the cab, running her hands over his arms and chest, trying repeatedly to kiss his neck—Barba had done his best to fend off her advances, but he didn’t want to do or say anything to upset her. He needed to get her into her apartment, and hopefully she would fall asleep and forget about…whatever this was.

He led her into the building and up to her apartment.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” she asked, leaning against his arm as he fished through her purse for her keys.

“Not tonight, no,” he said.

She tipped her head, narrowing her eyes. “Why not?”

He unlocked her door and pushed it open, stepping into the dark apartment with her attached to his side. He turned on the light, dropped her purse on the table, and pushed the door closed. She immediately turned and, holding the front of his shirt, pressed her lips against his.

He could’ve turned away; he’d been doing so for the past hour. But he didn’t. He let her kiss him, and he couldn’t lie to himself. It was selfishness, pure and simple. He _wanted_ to feel her lips against his. He’d always wanted that, and after tonight, she might never want to see him again.

So, he let her kiss him, and he closed his burning eyes, settling his hands onto her shoulders. He wanted her so badly it hurt, and it wasn’t just a physical desire. He loved her, and it was a love so big and powerful that he didn’t know what to do with it, how to contain it. He knew that she deserved better, but he wished that she wanted him— _really_ wanted him, the way he wanted her.

He pushed her back, gently. She blinked at him, startled and confused. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. If she were sober, she would understand.

_If she were sober, she wouldn’t be kissing you_ , he thought, and that hurt. It hurt because he knew it was true.

“Liv, honey, you need to go to bed,” he said, quietly. “You don’t realize how drunk you are, but… Sleep it off, you’ll see in the morning I was right.”

“I want—”

“No,” he cut in. His voice was harsher than he’d intended, so he softened his tone and said, “You don’t. You need to trust me, okay?”

She was frowning at him. He could sense her confusion and, worse, her feeling of rejection. “I thought you wanted—” She broke off, though, and ran a hand over her face. “You might be right,” she muttered. “The room is spinning.”

“Come on,” he said, taking her arm.

She pulled away from him. “I can put myself to bed,” she said, staggering just a bit as she headed toward her bedroom. He trailed along behind her, afraid she was going to fall. She stopped in the doorway, holding the jamb as she struggled out of her shoes. She stripped her coat off and dropped it onto the floor.

He bent and picked it up, draping it over the back of a chair. He slid her shoes out of the doorway with one foot. He turned on the light. When he looked at her, she was staring at him.

“I need to pee,” she proclaimed.

He opened his mouth but had no idea what to say.

“I don’t need your help,” she added.

_Thank you, Jesus_ , he thought. Aloud, he said, “Of course not.”

He stepped aside so she could get to the bathroom. He turned back the covers on her bed, and then he stood with his hands in his pockets, feeling like an asshole, until she returned. He was glad to see that she was still wearing all of her clothes. He’d been more than a little concerned.

She sank onto the edge of the bed. “I don’t feel well,” she mumbled.

He sighed. “Morning won’t be any picnic,” he said. “Lie down.”

She peered up at him. “Was I in a taxi?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, reaching beside her to pull the blankets further down. “Come on.”

“Were you there?” she asked.

He smiled. “Yes,” he answered.

She grabbed his shirt and pulled him down, kissing him. She dropped backward onto the bed, pulling him with her. He caught himself with his hands on either side of her, but he didn’t immediately resist. She shifted beneath him, brushing against his growing arousal, and he groaned, turning his face away from hers.

“You do want me,” she said.

“Yes,” he hissed through his teeth.

“I want you, too.”

“No,” he ground out, levering himself away from her.

“It’s not like I’m asking you to marry me,” she said, and he could see the pain in her expression. “Sometimes sex is just sex, Barba.”

“And sometimes it’s not,” he answered before he could stop himself. Their gazes held, and he could see her confusion sliding into understanding. She was drunk—too drunk to have this conversation, and not drunk enough to miss the look on his face. He could only hope for her sake that she wouldn’t remember anything in the morning.

He lifted the corner of the covers. To his relief, she turned her body, scooting up toward the pillow and pulling her legs onto the bed. He covered her up to her chin. Her eyes were shimmering as she looked up at him, and her pain was more than he could bear. He bent and pressed his lips against her forehead, closing his eyes.

“Don’t say goodbye,” she said, and he could hear the pain in her voice, too.

He straightened. “No,” he answered, barely keeping himself together. He forced a smile. “Just go to sleep, Liv,” he said.

He turned off the light and strode from the bedroom before he could do something stupid—before she could ask him to do something stupid, because he wouldn’t have the strength to refuse. She didn’t call after him, and he was relieved. Partly.

He walked into the living room and stopped, drawing a deep breath. He felt shaky and ill. He wasn’t proud of his desire, but he couldn’t be surprised by it, either. He’d wanted her for years, and tonight was the first time she’d—

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory of her kissing him, of how it felt for her body to be beneath his on the bed. He might cling to those memories later, but now—while she was lying, intoxicated and hurt, in the next room, his desire was inappropriate.

He knew he should leave.

He knew he should stay and talk to her in the morning.

He knew he should go back into the bedroom and lay his heart at her feet.

He knew he should never have let himself fall so stupidly in love with her.

He knew he should leave.

He went to the kitchen and found the bottle of scotch in the cupboard. She didn’t drink scotch, at least not as a first option. She kept it on hand for his visits.

_And when you’re no longer visiting?_ he thought, his stomach churning as he opened the bottle. _How long will she let it sit there? Will she finally break down and drink it? Will she pour it down the sink? Give it away?_

_Or will it wait until someone else comes along to drink it? Someone who can give her everything she wants, needs, and deserves? Will she think of me at all when she pours him a glass? Will she feel a pang of regret when he finishes the bottle, or will it be relief that she feels? Relief at finally being rid of the reminder?_

Barba’s hands were shaking as he got a glass from the cupboard. _I never meant I was leaving you_ , he thought.

But that’s what she’d assumed. That’s why she’d had so much to drink. That’s why she was upset. He hated that he’d caused her pain, but it hurt that she’d assumed he would walk away from her forever. It hurt that she didn’t know how important she was to him. It hurt that she didn’t know that _he_ didn’t know how to live without her.

He needed a change, in his career, in his life. He needed a change, but he still needed _her_.

He set the glass on the counter and lifted the bottle to his lips instead. He drank a long swallow and put the bottle down with a thunk. He braced his hands against the edge of the counter and lowered his head, breathing deeply through his nose.

_You can’t run away just because you’re hurt. You owe her more than that._

He was hurt because, after all these years, she’d never given him any sign that she wanted something more than friendship. Not until she thought he was leaving, and even then, she had to be drunk.

_You have to be honest with her_ , he thought. _Tell her how you feel. Even if she doesn’t feel the same. Even if she says goodbye, if she says your leaving is for the best. You owe her the whole truth._

He snatched the bottle off the counter and walked over to the couch, sinking down into the cushions.

He took another swig, wondering when he’d become such a coward.

_I never had so much to lose_ , he thought. He waited a few minutes and then pushed to his feet. He crept toward the bedroom, careful not to make any noise. He listened at the door, and he could hear her breathing: slow and even. He inched closer and peeked into the room. It was dark, but she was turned toward the door, and he could see that her eyes were closed. She was curled up, almost into a fetal position, with one hand beneath her head and the other tucked under her chin.

She’d stripped her clothes off, and was sleeping in her bra and underwear. Her clothes were on the floor, and she was uncovered. He moved forward without thinking, carefully pulling the blankets over her, praying he wouldn’t wake her.

_I never had so much to lose_ , he thought, again.

Then, backing slowly away: _she’s not yours to lose._

He went back to the couch, drinking from the bottle while he walked.

 

*       *       *

 

Benson cracked one eye, cautiously. She could feel the light on her skin, and she braced herself for the pain. As the soft morning light speared her eyeball, she did her best to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Her stomach was churning, her head was pounding, and her eye was watering as she scrunched it closed.

But there was something else. She could feel the weight of an arm over her waist, could hear soft breathing behind her. With her eyes closed tightly against the offensive light of day, she struggled to remember the previous evening. Most of it was a blur, and her stomach churned harder than ever.

_What the hell did I do?_ she thought. She could remember being at Barba’s going-away party. She could remember being upset—that was no surprise, she’d been upset since he’d told her he was leaving—and she could remember drinking. A lot. And…

Had she been hanging all over him? Had she tried to _kiss_ him?

She groaned, forcing her eyes open. She deserved the pain.

His breathing stopped. For a moment, neither of them moved, neither of them breathed. Then, slowly, he pulled his arm away from her waist and she could feel him shifting away from her. As he rolled onto his back, he made a sound—an involuntary grunt of pain.

She couldn’t remember him drinking very much, but she also couldn’t remember how she’d gotten home. She pulled a breath through her nose, cursing herself a dozen times over. Gathering her courage, and all the physical strength she could muster, she rolled onto her back and turned her head, peering blearily at him. He was staring up at the ceiling through squinted eyes.

“Am I alive?” she asked.

He snorted, then winced, without looking at her. “It hurts too much for death,” he muttered.

“How did we get here?” she asked. Her own voice hurt her head, and she sounded hoarse. Her throat was scratchy, her mouth sticky.

“I can tell you how _you_ got here,” he muttered, his forehead wrinkling. “But I don’t know how I…” He trailed off, struggling to swallow. She could see him trying to remember, and she didn’t know if it was better or worse that _neither_ of them knew what had happened. “Sorry. I’ll get out of your bed…in just a second…”

She realized that she could feel the cool air against her skin, and she looked down at herself. The blankets were at her waist, and she was covered with nothing but her bra. Pulling the blankets up seemed like a lot of work—and what was the point? They were in bed together; he must’ve already seen her. A minute ago, his arm had been around her. “I’m not wearing clothes,” she said.

He turned his head. She looked at him, and saw his bleary gaze skim down to her chest. He averted his eyes quickly, grimacing. “Jesus,” he murmured. After a moment, he glanced down at himself. He was wearing his undershirt. He lifted the blankets a bit, checking beneath, and he groaned when he realized he was in his boxers. “Why the hell did I take off my clothes?” he said, his lips barely moving. He closed his eyes.

“You don’t know what happened?” she asked after a full minute of silence.

“I don’t remember…” he said. He put a shaky hand over his face. “Oh, God. Yes, I do. I was on the couch…”

“And I was…?”

“Sleeping.”

“I think I remember a taxi. And…did I call you a prude?”

“And a fuddy-duddy,” he said.

“I was…all over you…” He didn’t answer, or lower his hand. After a pause, she managed: “Did we…?”

“No.”

“Are…you sure?”

He laughed, but the sound held more pain than humor. “You’d know if we had.”

“Aren’t you confident,” she muttered.

He lowered his hand and looked at her. “That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“You don’t remember getting undressed.”

“I remember you being passed out.”

“Look, I’m not accusing—I’m not blaming you for anything. I know this is…God, this is on me. I’m sorry. I said things, inexcusable things…”

“Olivia, I did not have sex with you,” he said. “There is no amount of alcohol in the world that would erase that from my memory.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she stared at him, her heart pounding in time with her head. Suddenly, she remembered: “Sometimes sex is just sex,” she said in a weak voice. “I actually said that to you.” His expression tightened, but he didn’t answer. “And sometimes it’s not. That’s what you said. What did you mean?”

He regarded her in silence for several moments before saying, quietly, “If you don’t know the answer to that, then now is not the time to discuss it.”

He started to turn away, and she knew he was going to leave. Panic clawed at her chest, and she said, desperately, “Wait!” She winced at the sound of her own voice, but she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait. I do know. I know. It’s why I was…was trying to…”

Rolling back to face her, his expression was composed—but she could see the pain in his red-rimmed eyes, could see that his jaw was clenched. “Why you got drunk and said—and did—things that you never would’ve done sober,” he said.

“That’s not true.”

“Then why now?” he asked. His voice and expression were raw.

“I can’t lose you. I’ve been a coward because I thought there was time, and I just kept pretending that it was enough, that what we had was enough, because it was too important. What if we started dating and broke up? Our working relationship, our friendship—I couldn’t lose you,” she said. “And now—now you’re leaving anyway,” she added, her voice cracking.

“Liv, I have nothing to offer you right now, to you and Noah. I could’ve gone to prison. I quit my job. I don’t know where I’ll be living. I thought if I just avoided saying it, then we could go on like we were for a little bit longer and maybe I could figure out a way to be someone worthy of you again. I know it was my fault, but I thought you would…” He sighed and closed his eyes again. “I thought you would read my mind, apparently. I never meant to say goodbye to you, Liv. Everything else, but never you. But it felt like you were…letting me go. Like you heard a goodbye and accepted it.”

“Does it look like I _accepted_ it?” she asked, and his eyes opened. “I didn’t know how to hold on to you without holding you back. I love you too much to hold you back. If friendship is all you want, even long-distance friendship, please—don’t let my bad behavior last night end that. Don’t let me…drive you away like everyone else.”

“You deserve better. I could’ve given you more…a year ago, or five years ago, or…two months ago.”

“Do you think I care about any of that?”

“No. But I care. I waited too long. I was so focused on my career…”

“We both were,” she said. “We both thought there was time. So maybe we panicked when we realized things had to change because we’ve been ignoring our feelings for so long, pretending everything was fine. You’ve been in love with me for a long time, Rafa, I know that. We just...put it aside.”

“Is…there still time?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll make time. I love you.”

They rolled toward each other, and he pulled her into his arms. She pressed her face against his shirt. His heat and scent were soothing, both to her pounding head and her queasy stomach.

They were silent for a minute. Finally, he said, “I forgot that you’re…not dressed.” She shifted in his arms a bit, and he knew she could feel his growing arousal. “Sorry,” he muttered.

She pulled her head back to look at his face. “You were sober when we got here.”

“Yeah. I decided to stay until morning so we could talk, but I…opened the scotch, and…things are a little fuzzy.”

“You’re sure we didn’t…do anything?”

“Do you remember kissing me?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. “See? I told you, you’d know.”

She laughed, and immediately winced. “I feel awful.”

“I haven’t been this hungover since…I don’t even know. College graduation, probably.”

“Why did I take my clothes off?”

“Why did I take _my_ clothes off?” he returned, and she laughed carefully. “Actually, I remember. God help me.”

“You were hoping I’d wake up sober and still want to…make out?”

“Something like that.”

“I do. But I also don’t want to move.”

“We need to get up or we’re gonna feel like shit all day. What time’s Lucy bringing Noah back?”

“I’m supposed to pick up him. I’ll ask her to keep him a while. Until I’m less of a…mess.”

“Rollins will probably check on you. Make sure I didn’t take advantage.”

“I wish you had.”

He laughed, softly. “No, you don’t.” He lifted a hand and tucked her hair behind her ear, letting out a breath. He searched her face for a moment. He leaned forward and she tipped her chin up so he could press his lips against hers. His fingers slid into her tangled hair, and she held on to his shirt. She shifted closer; she could feel his desire, and she wished she didn’t feel so horrible.

He moved his head back on the pillow to look at her, and his thumb stroked lightly at her jaw.

“Kissing you makes me feel less like throwing up,” she said.

He laughed. “That’s exactly the boost my ego needed this morning.”

“We can try with our mouths open next time. After we brush our teeth.”

He laughed again, and said, “And shower. I feel gross.”

“I guess we should get up.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you just roll me toward the edge of the bed?”

He chuckled. “Maybe on the count of three we can sort of…push off each other,” he suggested.

“Okay.”

“On second thought, you should get up first. I’m not exactly in a…decent state.”

“I’m in my underwear.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, with a small laugh. “I can feel what state you’re in.”

“Sorry.”

“You know, you’re setting the bar pretty low. If this turns you on, I’m going to be making very little effort in the future. Why waste my time and energy on makeup and brushing my hair and getting dressed?”

“Conscious and willing—and reasonably sober, that’s all I need,” he said.

“I think I remember you having a little reaction last night.”

“You’re choosing very inconvenient things to remember.”

“Things are coming back in bits and pieces.”

“I’m trying not to take that as an insult.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re right—I’d definitely remember if anything had happened. Okay, I’m getting up. Wish me luck.”

He kissed her, quickly, and moved his arms so she could roll toward the edge of the bed.

 

*       *       *

 

He knocked lightly on the bathroom door.

“You can come in,” she said.

He pushed the door open and poked his head inside. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub in her bra and panties, bent forward with her elbows on her knees. He held out a glass of wine, and she handed him the bottle of aspirin she’d been clutching in her hand.

“I can’t seem to open this,” she said. She took the wine and cast it a distrustful look.

“It’ll take the edge off,” he said, shaking three aspirin into his palm. He handed them to her, and she downed the pills with a swallow of red wine. She gave him the glass, and he took a drink to wash down his own aspirin. “We’re too old for this,” he muttered, returning her wine and setting the aspirin bottle on the counter.

“Speak for yourself. I feel great,” she answered. She tipped her head back with a grimace and swallowed half of the remaining wine. While she was drinking, her gaze skimmed down the length of his body. When she lowered the glass, she cleared her throat, and said, “I’m just sitting here until the room stops spinning.” She tried to hand him the last of the wine.

He shook his head. “I was smart enough to leave myself a few swallows of scotch,” he said.

“Good planning,” she answered. She finished the wine and he took the empty glass, setting it on the counter. “Rollins texted me. I told her she was fired.” She held out a hand, and he pulled her to her feet. She grimaced, shaking her head. “There’s a new toothbrush in that drawer,” she said, pointing.

“Is that a hint?”

“I want to try the kissing thing again. I already brushed mine. And gargled mouthwash.”

“I’ll bet that really added to the flavor of the wine,” he said.

She leaned over the edge of the tub, carefully, with her hand braced against the wall, and turned on the water. She waited for the water to warm, and then pushed herself upright before turning on the shower. She turned to look at Barba. “Were you staring at my ass just now?”

“Yes. But I might’ve blacked out for a few seconds.” He turned and found the toothbrush, pulling it out of its package.

“I won’t tell your mother you got hammered last night,” she said.

He snorted, squirting toothpaste onto the brush. “No one says _hammered_ ,” he told her. “Besides, that’s the least of her…” He trailed off, frowning. “She’s barely speaking to me,” he said after a moment. He looked up and caught Benson’s gaze in the mirror. She moved forward and put her chin on his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist, her eyes holding his in the reflection.

“I’m sorry, Raf. I love you.”

He swallowed, gathering his courage. “Do you…still have faith?” he asked, quietly, his lips barely moving.

“Yes,” she said, tightening her arms around him. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Forever. Whenever you start to doubt what you see in the mirror, just look at your reflection in my eyes, instead. Okay, that seemed a lot less corny in my head.”

He turned his face and kissed her cheek. “It wasn’t corny,” he said. Tears were stinging his eyes, but relief, cool and soothing, was loosening the knots that had been in his stomach for weeks. “I love you, Liv. I’m not sure of anything right now except for that.”

She kissed his shoulder and stepped away. “We’ll work the rest out,” she told him.

He bent over the sink to brush his teeth. Behind him, he heard the unmistakable sound of her stepping into the shower spray, and he hesitated for a moment, toothbrush in his mouth, resisting the temptation to look in the mirror. He finished brushing his teeth quickly, rinsing with a handful of water and spitting into the sink. The mirror was fogged with steam, now, but he could hear the water hitting her body, and his imagination had taken over.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much,” he answered.

“Come here,” she said.

He turned toward the shower. The curtain was open. She was still wearing her bra and underwear, but they were transparent, plastered against her body. Barba struggled to catch his breath. “Jesus,” he murmured, swallowing with difficulty.

She reached out a hand, and he crossed the short distance to the bathtub. She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, and he stepped into the shower. She pressed her body against his and kissed him. He made a sound in his throat as his arms went around her. His clothes were already soaked, clinging to his skin.

The hot water felt good, but she felt better.

He pushed her gently against the wall, kissing her— _really_ kissing her for the first time. He tried to keep his hips back, but she settled her hands at his waist and pulled his body flush against hers. He made another involuntary sound and turned his face to draw a breath.

“God, Liv,” he said. “I might embarrass myself, here.”

She shifted against him, and he turned his head, once more capturing her mouth with his. He kissed her until her legs were weak and she was clinging to him for support. He wanted her so badly it hurt, an exquisite pain unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It made him forget everything else—his hangover, his mess of a life, nothing mattered except her wet body pressed against his, and he wanted her.

But not like this.

She deserved better.

He pulled back a bit, in spite of every fiber of his body screaming at him to press closer. He raised his hands to her jaw, studying her face in the swirl of steam and mist. “Does your head still hurt?” he asked.

“It’s getting better,” she said. “Yours?”

“I don’t think there’s any blood left in my head, actually,” he said with a grin.

She laughed. “I think we found _your_ hangover cure.”

“Yeah, you,” he said. “But I’m never drinking again.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure. I guess I won’t replace the scotch, then? We’ll just have, what? Milk and cookies every night?”

_Every night?_ His stomach fluttered pleasantly at the thought. As she realized what she’d said, he saw hesitation creep into her eyes. “Noah will love that,” he said, and her expression softened as she looked at him.

“We’ll just sit around getting old and fat,” she muttered.

“ _I’d_ love that,” he said, smiling. It was the truth. He wanted nothing more than that—to be by her side every night for the rest of his life. He’d been afraid to believe it was possible. For years, he’d been terrified of admitting his feelings, of risking what they had. It had taken losing almost everything for him to realize that he didn’t care about anything else. If she would have him, then he had everything.

“Me, too,” she said.

He wanted to kiss her again, but knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. Instead, he picked up the bottle of shampoo and gestured with his chin toward the spray of water. “Get yourself wet,” he said.

“I am wet,” she muttered, and he suppressed a groan. She grinned at the look on his face. She backed into the water, tipping her head to soak her hair. He glanced down the length of her body, and she saw his throat working. “You don’t have a weird hair fetish or something, do you?” she asked, watching as he squirted shampoo into his palm.

“I have a _you_ fetish,” he said, and she laughed. “Turn around.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, but turned without comment. As soon as he started massaging the shampoo into her hair, she sighed and said, “Oh my God.”

He chuckled behind her, shifting closer to her body, and said, “Does that mean you like it?”

“Please don’t ever stop doing that,” she murmured. Her head was tipped back a bit, her eyes closed.

“Your wish is my command,” he answered, and she could hear the smile in his voice. His fingers were sure but gentle against her scalp, and she put a hand against the wall to support herself. He bent his head and, his lips at her ear, breathed, “I might be developing a hair fetish, after all.”

“Good, because I’m never washing it myself, again,” she answered.

“Leave it to me,” he whispered, and she shivered, leaning back against his chest. “I want to be your hangover cure.”

“I’m never drinking again,” she said. “Unless this is guaranteed afterward.”

“Keep your eyes closed,” he murmured, turning her so she was facing him. She leaned against his body and felt him draw an unsteady breath. He rinsed her hair carefully, watching to make sure no stray suds ventured near her closed eyes as he massaged the shampoo out as thoroughly, and slowly, as he’d massaged it in. The muscles of his chest rippled against her breasts as his arms moved, and she wanted the shirt and bra to disappear. She wanted to feel his skin against hers.

She slid her hands to his waist and lifted the bottom of his t-shirt, peeling the wet garment upward. She could feel his muscles quivering against her knuckles. He took a small step backward, lifting his arms so she could tug the shirt over his head. She tossed it past the edge of the curtain, and it hit the floor with a wet plopping sound.

She turned her back and pulled her wet hair aside. She could feel the slight tremble in his fingers as he unhooked her bra. She stripped it off quickly and threw it blindly toward his shirt. Facing him again, she pressed her chest against his and kissed him, turning his body until their positions were reversed and his back was to the shower. She reached up, his chest hair tickling her sensitized nipples as she ran her fingers through his hair, wetting it.

She bent and grabbed the shampoo bottle, pouring a dollop into her hand. She pushed close to him, again, needing to feel his body against hers. He watched her face as she reached up and began working the soap into his short hair. After a few seconds, his eyes closed, and she could feel his heart slamming in his chest, could feel him trying to regulate his breathing.

“Are you okay?” she asked, hesitating with her hands in his hair.

He opened his eyes. “Okay?” he repeated, as though he didn’t understand the word.

“You’ve been…frustrated all night and morning. I don’t want to…torture you.”

“Liv, I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want you right now,” he admitted. “But torture? If this is your idea of torture, I’ll confess to every sin in the world and accept this punishment forever.”

She smiled, gently moving his head under the water so she could rinse the shampoo from his hair. “I can’t wait forever,” she said. “I need you inside me.” His lips parted, and her smile widened. “Unless you’re a—”

“I am not a prude,” he interrupted. He managed a frown, even though his lips were curved. “Or an old fuddy-duddy. At least not yet,” he added. He put an arm around her back and lifted her. She gasped, startled. She wrapped her legs around his waist and threw an arm over his shoulder. “It’s called being a _gentleman_ ,” he said, smirking at her as she clung to his wet body. “And I _don’t_ smell like cinnamon.”

“What?”

He laughed, the vibration traveling through her. He reached back, awkwardly, and managed to shut off the water.

“Don’t drop me,” she said, even though she was holding onto him with all four limbs.

He straightened, adjusting his arm against her back, and narrowed his eyes. “I would never,” he said, with mock offense. He used his shoulder to push the curtain aside, and stepped carefully out of the tub. Their bodies were wet and slippery, clad only in boxers and panties, but he moved confidently across the floor.

“Cinnamon?” she asked, peering at his face as he fumbled behind her back for the doorknob. “That’s not quite right, but it’s close. Do you need help?”

“No,” he said, giving her a dirty look as he managed to open the door. He shifted her higher, readjusting his grip. She could feel his erection straining at the wet material of his boxers, and she wanted him to move faster. “Your bed’s gonna be wet.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Are we there yet?”

“Next time you can carry me.”

“It’d be faster,” she answered, and he laughed, kicking her bedroom door shut. A moment later, he lowered her onto the bed. She glanced over her shoulder. “You made the bed?” she asked.

“I did,” he said, sliding her wet underwear over her thighs, down her legs, and tossing them to the floor.

“You’ll be handy to have around,” she said, and he smirked at her as he shucked his boxers. Her gaze slid down his body, and then back up to his face.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” she breathed, pushing herself further onto the bed.

Smiling, he leaned over her, trailing kisses up her body until he reached her mouth. As he settled his wet body over hers, she shivered beneath him. “Cold?” he asked, lifting his head to look at her face.

She shook her head against the bed. “I just…need you…” she said.

He slid his hand between their bodies, gently urging her thighs further apart. She made a sound as his fingers found her more than ready for him. She moved against his hand, trying to draw him closer.

“Please,” she said.

“I want to go slowly, but—”

“We’ve had six years of foreplay,” she said, and he laughed, surprised, looking down at her. “And a lifetime to go slowly,” she added, and she watched his expression grow serious.

He studied her for a few moments, before ducking his head to kiss her. “I love you,” he said against her lips.

“I love you, too,” she said. She felt him positioning himself, and she shifted to make it easier. He entered her slowly, watching her face as he filled her, and she sighed in relief. “Finally,” she breathed, and he smiled.

“Finally,” he agreed softly.

 


End file.
